221b Baker Street
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Drabble series, updated irregularly. Some missing pieces from the movie, some original bits. Drabble #9: Preview drabble of my multi-chapter fic, which is coming soon...
1. Ten Minutes

_It's not very much, but hopefully someone will enjoy it at least a bit?? No?? Bummer. Oh, well. Read anyway. ;)_

**Ten Minutes**

For whatever reason, I stopped mid-step and glanced back to the double doors through which my friend had just vanished not mere seconds previous.

My blood ran cold as an unexplainably sudden, intense feeling of grief and loss overwhelmed me. Before I realized what I was doing, I was by his side once more, and the baffling anguish dissipated quickly as it had come.

Exactly ten minutes later, as he and I simultaneously tensed in readiness, I knew why I'd chosen to stay.

* * *

_I hope everyone understands the meaning - if not, please don't be afraid to say so, and I'll gladly explain or rewrite to make it better. :)_


	2. Vigil

**Vigil**

The two of them entered expecting to find him tuning his permanently out-of-tune violin, smoking his clay pipe incessantly, or even merely sitting there, his eyes vacant and expressionless as he pondered intensely the problem before him.

Neither could resist crying out in pure, uncontrolled horror upon finding him curled upon the cold, hard, chalk-covered floor, twitching and whimpering feebly, sweat gleaming on his furrowed brow and coating his pale, pale flesh.

Only when he nearly collapsed after six-hours' vigil did she finally convince the half-dead doctor to allow her to take a turn caring for his fever-worn friend.

* * *

_Requests? Advice? Questions? Bomb threats? Leave them in a review! ;)_


	3. Forgiven

_Drabble #3..._

**Forgiven**

He'd shouted at him, accused him, blamed him, called him inhuman, and, to top it all off, he'd left him there all alone in the midst of violent, dirty gangsters and scoundrels the entire day, unprotected.

After a long and much-needed slumber, he'd at last come to his senses; without a word to his wife as to where he was going, he dashed as fast as his wounded leg would carry him to the jail yard, only to find his friend had long since been gone.

He stood there alone in his half-empty room, mechanically packing away God knows what into random boxes, positively sick with worry and guilt, when out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a black, mildly curly disarray of hair peeking in through the doorway.

The nervousness overtaking relief, all he could think to say was, "I didn't know you were here," as he braced himself for an onslaught of justifiable curses.

When nothing escaped his friend's mouth but a quiet question and he proceeded his unsubtle endeavors to rather pathetically tempt him into joining him again, he knew he was forgiven.

* * *

_I'm thinking of putting a Part 2, for Holmes' POV and Watson's forgiveness...All depends on the readers, I suppose...;)_


	4. Forgiven II

_Holmes' perspective of Watson's forgiveness...(aw)_

**Forgiven  
(Holmes)**

He'd offended him, made him miss his tea with his family-to-be, put him in the midst of an uneven brawl, caused him to lose his engagement ring, nearly gotten him killed more than once in the space of five minutes, and had him thrown into a sweat-smelling jail yard overnight with no sleep while he snoozed warm and comfortable against him.

In a rehearsed attempt to say with his actions what his words never could, he'd tried to apologise by offering the only thing he could think of that Watson would appreciate - adventure. But it was to no apparent response, as Watson corrected his deliberate indication and then made no attempt to join him as he left.

In one last desperate attempt for forgiveness, he'd left it behind on the table where Watson would be sure to see.

Just when it all seemed in vain, the doctor suddenly appeared by his side halfway up the cobbled street, half-heartedly reprimanding him about once again forgetting his revolver. As bright blue eyes met darker ones, an echo of his own eagerness, he knew he was forgiven.

* * *

_I know it wasn't quite as good as it probably could have been, but if you enjoyed it even a smidge, tell me in a review?? ;)_


	5. Content

_Okay, this one...I am not sure at all about. First of all, I've never tried writing in Sherlock Holmes' POV before (movieverse, I mean), and so I was sort of experimenting with that. And secondly, I beta-read my own work, and this time, I simply cannot trust myself to look over it a second time, because I'm afraid I'll back out of posting it, and I really need to post _something_, right? *chews on fingernails*  
Anyway, my dear, wonderful readers...please don't be too harsh...please? *hehe* And I hope someone likes it at least a little...??_

**Content**

I have been described by a certain half-crippled physician as a cold, calculating machine, a creature so unlike the rest of his race that surely he must not be human. I see, I observe, and I deduce, and when I am not seeing, observing, or deducing, I am either experimenting or attempting to tune my faithful violin so that I may amusingly awaken the testy residents of the surrounding abodes.

For most of my life, I would have certainly agreed upon this point. For twenty-odd years, I was content to see, observe, deduce, experiment, and play off-key for my unwilling neighbors. These were the things that held my emotions, the things I could not bear to lose; they were what made me - the reason I rolled out of bed every morning. I had no one, no one had me, and I was more than willing to live in those solitary conditions for the rest of my many-times threatened life, with no emotions or feelings or ties to loved ones to cloud my world - only petty problems to solve and hissing chemicals to mix.

Those lifeless, unfeeling objects were the most important thing in my isolated existence.

It almost makes me laugh aloud now - or at least, shake my head at my own ignorance.

I don't know when, how, or even why, but one way or another, the separate gravitational pulls of each of those things suddenly shifted and combined, attaching themselves to one thing and one alone.

He sits across from me now by the fire, sipping on his tea as his bright cyan-blue eyes - always with a twinkle of mischievousness and adventure - skim over the newspaper in his other hand, his brow furrowing at whatever he is reading.

And I am sitting here, watching him, my violin sitting silently on the settee, my chemicals untouched on the desk, all having been somewhat neglected. Even the alcohol doesn't quite call for me like it before did.

Sometimes, I loathe myself for it; I do not understand why my rational mind would allow my affections to shift from objects that would never hurt me, could never leave me, to something that would, and could, and _has_.

He is leaving me all alone in this cold, dark, deadly world, perhaps never to return to my side again. I wonder what will become of me after those vows are stated on that horrid day in the near future. He will come around in the beginning, naturally, to see about the cases and such, but it will not last for long - a year, at most, is what I deduce.

I wonder who would grieve for me were I to die on a case gone wrong, when there is no stalwart doctor to watch my back.

No one would, I fancy. He would read it in the papers, perhaps pursue Lestrade for details, pay his respects at the funeral, and then go about his life as if he never had once lived at 221b Baker Street.

And I could not blame him for it.

**THE END**

_I've also never ended something so sad before...wow, a whole lotta new stuff for me. Oh, boy; that cannot be good. I'm thinking about adding a second part, to perhaps make things not so morbid? Or I might just remove this altogether. I'll let you all be the judges! (Go easy!!! LOL)_


	6. Enough

_Remember how I said I might add a second part to the last chapter? Well, I'm not gonna. But wait!! I'm planning on writing a chapter fic (if I ever get over this disease called Writer's Block!) about Holmes not wanting Watson to leave and how that whole deal was fixed by the end of the movie, 'cause we all know there were NOT enough clues to indicate that Holmes was, indeed, over being so hurt and lonely at Watson's leaving. *sniff* So yeah, that's the reason, and expect a chapter fic from me...someday... *blushes*  
In the meantime, please enjoy this drabble (actually, more like 500-word ficlet) from me. This one is different from the others, in that it does not focus on Holmes and Watson's comradeship, but on an entirely different (half) friendship with entirely different meaning and consequence. I think the relationship between these two friends is just as endearing as Holmes/Watson, although it is in a more...reserved...way. *biggrin*  
Oh, and I know it may sound this way at first, but it is NOT a romance or a slash between ANYONE. As most of you have heard, I CANNOT write romances. At all. *rolls eyes at self* It's just a friendship fic from lil ol' me. *wink*_

**Enough**

The door closed silently behind him, an unheard echo resounding in his head, and it sounded so very final.

They had passed the point of no return. Whatever happened next, there was no going back.

He had expressed to Holmes on the ride over in so many words that he did not approve of this plan, especially in light of the slaughterhouse explosion that had left the doctor in desperate need of immediate hospitalization and could have easily killed them had all they not been on the outside. Surely there must be another way other than taking such a risk with the right hand man of England's — and possibly the world's — most dangerous and merciless killer.

He hoped with every fibre of his being that Sherlock Holmes knew what he was doing.

Holmes had melodramatically replied to his urgently voiced reasoning against his dicey scheme with a curt, mildly bothered, "Lestrade, if my plan succeeds, Blackwood _will_ be hanged — _properly_ this time, all the world will be salvaged, London will be rid of a few more of its worst scoundrels, and you will get the credit for the capture, as always. Everyone returns home in high spirits, I'd wager, so if you do not mind, _please_ _do bestow _upon me the key. Thank you, Inspector. Now, do you remember what you are to tell him when we arrive?"

He had completed the rehearsed performance with self-gratifying precision (and, though he still was not entirely convinced, he did rather enjoy now having the honest ability to say he socked Sherlock Holmes one in the gut and walked away without a scratch, from either the man himself or his hot-tempered Army veteran friend).

He only hoped that his small role in this sordid madness would be enough.

If he did not know himself better, the man would have said the feeling had had as he turned away from the door was almost actual concern for the unshaven man who was now facing Coward alone in his luxurious chambers. The doctor, after all, had made no appearance as of yet, possibly because he had indeed decided enough was enough and left Holmes to his own fate. Or perhaps, knowing Holmes' manner of thinking, he was waiting somewhere on the sidelines, tensed and ready to assist when word was given.

Strangely, he found himself hoping it was indeed the latter. Perhaps he didn't altogether loathe the vain detective — despise, yes, naturally, but loathe…? Their relationship was awkward, one of petty rivalry and unvoiced yet obvious exasperations, but if the facts truly were to be enlightened, he felt that somewhere beyond all of that, buried so deeply neither of them would ever outwardly acknowledge it, there was a distinct friendship and fondness; however bizarre or improbable it may seem at times, it was, undeniably, there.

Suddenly, respectable Scotland Yard Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade found himself sending up a silent, brief prayer of request for the first time since he was a lad.

* * *

_Just to make it clear, I do not know for sure that Geoffrey is Lestrade's first name; all we know from the stories is that it does start with a G (he sent Holmes a telegram once with only his first initial). But this was the most fitting name I could find in the list at the website "Behind the Name: The Etymology and History of First Names." And yes, this is yet another pointless mystery Sherlockians/Holmesians like to guess at. *wink wink*_


	7. I See

_Before you ask, no, I have not tripped and fallen into a black hole or been eaten by a pack of killer jaguars. In fact, the reason I have not updated much lately is because I have been working on...drumroll please...a multi-chapter story! -applause- I won't post it until I have all the chapters finished (in case I need to change something or another as the story progresses), so if it seems I am scarce, don't worry; I assure you I am busy, and I'm fairly certain you'll like what I'm working on.  
Anyway, this drabble(ish) is something of a glimpse into what the multi-chapter story is going to be about, on the emotional side of the plot anyway. I just can't get over the lonely, sad Holmes. -sniff-_

**I See**

She had been standing on the corner of the lane, which was crowded with the familiar sights and scents of men who smelt of rotting fish and women smelling of alcohol, calling out to the passersby the same four words she had been reciting for longer than the past decade:

"Coin for a reading! Coin for a reading!"

As it was every day that came and went, she seemed to have no influence upon those that pushed and shoved by her, those that were too rushed in their efforts to create a better life for themselves to notice a gypsy woman offering a glimpse into the futures they each awaited.

As she stood leaned against the building, lighting a match for the cigarette she had stolen, an odd sense overtook her spirit, a potent sadness approaching from somewhere in the street. It was not the sadness which drew her attention; oh, no, for this place was filled with unhappy hearts and hopelessness beyond what should ever be felt. What made her pause and take notice was the depth of it, the depth of the soul which encompassed the sadness. It was a strange soul, one of intricate contradictions — contentment and pain, companionship and loneliness, forgiveness and resentment, fragility and strength, so capable of unconditional love and yet possessing the self-imposed shields against love of any kind….She was nearly taken aback by the rareness and sheer purity of it all.

Then, she saw eyes dark as coal watching her, and knew immediately the whose soul by those ardent orbs.

"You are the woman who offers palm readings?"

She affirmed, "Flora, milord."

"Flora, I have a proposition for you. You will be paid double your usual wages if you carry it out well enough."

It is a widely-known fact that a fabricated prediction is a disgrace to a true fortune-teller, and yet she could not deny this man his request; the truth behind his sorrow was beginning to emerge as he briskly described his plan to her. He glanced up every short moment, then a vague alarm reached his features, and he rushed her to reach the street he named and await his signal.

She watched as honest awe filled the man's face when she began her deception; he obviously did not believe she knew how he felt for his companion, or how said companion felt in return. It was most certainly a bond, and a powerful one at that.

She did her very best, made it twice as persuasive as was usual, and still the other man was not deceived. She watched and felt as the young doctor's anger flared towards his friend. He threw an insult, argued heatedly until both voices rose, and all the while it became clearer to her the reason for the darker man's inner turmoil.

That soul so deep and heart so innocent was suffering through a time of worthlessness, and her own heart ached for him when he realized this was not the first time. He had been abandoned by everyone in his life, for one reason or another.

After the younger man had disappeared into the jewelry shop's door, he dropped three times as much as he had agreed into her hand, an unspoken gratitude.

Her eyes followed him until he had also entered the shop, and she found herself wishing for the first time in her life that she really could see clearly into the future.

* * *

_Review?_


	8. Psychologically Disturbed

_This is another snippet of Holmes' somewhat depressive thoughts regarding Watson's leaving. I sort of like these, because as I'm writing them I like to imagine that there are countless short little "messages" like this one scrawled onto various pages in books that lay in the floor of their sitting room-little windows into Holmes' soul that are out there in the open just begging for Watson to discover them._

**Psychologically Disturbed**

I have observed that, when one is most flustered and upset (especially when these two characteristics are combined with any amount of sleep deprivation), those are the times when the words he speaks make the least amount of realistic sense. So much more this is for you, I daresay, dear Watson. In the very least, this is true in my perspective of you.

You asserted that you must be "psychologically disturbed." I am not a tenacious medical man such as yourself, but I cannot but disagree with this analysis.

After all, I think it is clear to both of us that I know very well what psychological disturbances are. Even once, not long before that day we met in Bart's, a medical man from there–one whom I barely knew–told me quite candidly that my behavior was nothing short of psychological imbalances, and that I would do good to report my mannerisms and habits (the same which you so often mention to me) to a specialist so that I might be able to live "normally." I am certain he is not the only one with such opinions.

You, on the other hand, my friend, are one of the soundest men I have ever encountered, speaking in mental, physical, and emotional terms. You are most certainly not suffering from any one of those "ailments" which plague me by way of my formidable intellect. You are good, and honourable–a dark horse. Why you remain with the likes of me is the mystery which I have yet to solve.

Yet, you do, and so I have learnt to be content in that knowledge. My only wish is that whatever mental disorders and psychological disturbances I posses were destined never to repulse you; unfortunately, now they has done just that, and by the end of this week you shall be gone, and I shall be left alone with my vices.


	9. Preview I  Kaavelan's Rooms

_I'm going to be giving a few previews of my new multi-chapter fic while you and I both wait for it to be finished. Here, they are searching for evidence that a local "sorcerer" is involved in the crime they're investigating..._

**Preview I - Kaavelan's Rooms**

Holmes stooped to get a better look at the markings carved into the side of the furniture piece, moving slowly around the corner as he ran his fingers along the scratched symbols. Suddenly, his gray felt hat knocked into something and fell into the floor. Holmes picked it up and stood to shake the ungodly amount of dust from it when he found himself face-to-face with the offending object. It was another cage, only more obviously meant to house beasts of the air and not of land.

_Where are the birds, then?_ he wondered to himself, peeping into the cage. _Ah. There they are._

Two parrots, feathers black as pitch, lay in the bottom, stiff and open-eyed.

Holmes sniffed, blinked, and returned to his undertaking. Having abandoned the desk, he proceeded to wander about the room in his own peculiar fashion, examining random objects that caught his eye.


End file.
